The Stagnant Fountain

From afar the fountain looked normal: stained marble with patches of lichen spattered here and there.

Story and art by P.L. Cobb

The thing had been in his grandparents backyard for as long as he could remember; the funny thing was that he had never seen it working, and neither had anyone else. He found that odd, but perhaps it had been broken?

But if such a thing was broken, why keep it?

Determined to find his answers he set off for the house at once. When his grandparents had passed several years ago the house had been left to his sister, which was in turn renovated into a family cottage.

When he finally got to the house he received a greeting from his youngest niece: Clara.

“What are you doing?” She asked him.

“Just checking on something in the backyard,” he said cheerfully.

“You mean the fountain?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“We’re not allowed to go near it. Mom says we could get hurt.”

“She’s not wrong,” he told her.

He approached the fountain carefully, circling it as if it were a starving bear. To be honest, no one was allowed to go near the fountain as far as he could remember. His grandfather had punished him for trying once. Now there was no one to stop him.

From afar the fountain looked normal: stained marble with patches of lichen spattered here and there. On closer inspection he could make out the statue: a very life-like monument depicting death. The bowl of the fountain was made of bones.

He wanted to leave, but there was something about the fountain that made him stay.